Fortune and Men's Eyes: 
Drama in One Act: by 
Josephine Preston Peabody 



J 3531 
13 F6 
17 
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Samuel French : Publisher 

28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York 

LONDON 

Samuel French, Ltd. 

26 Southampton Street, Strand 
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Fortune and Men's Eyes: 
Drama in One Act: by 
Joseph! ne Preston. Peabody 



Samuel French : Publisher 

28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York 

LONDON 

Samuel French, Ltd. 

26 Southampton Street, Strand 



-1j)6 



5^v 



r W 



Oopyrig'ht, 1917, by Josephine Preston Feabodj' 



Caution. — This play is fully protected under the Copyright 
laws of the United States and is subject to royahy when 
produced by amateurs or professionals. AppHcatiens for 
the right to produce " Fortune and Men's Eyes " should be 
made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St.. New York. 

©OLD 47201 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



m 21 1917 



FOREWORD. 



Some apology is due from anyone who would 
make use of our Shakespeare as a Person of the 
Play. 

In this instance, the play came into being as an 
act of devotion, rather than a free-will dramatic 
scheme. 

For a long season, the writer had brooded over 
Shakespere's Sonnets, and their further revelation 
of the understanding heart that remains a treasure 
to mankind. 

The scars upon a great mind, of grief and disillu- 
sion; a false friend, a bitter, disenchanting lady; 
self-contempt, isolation, doubt outpoured; — these 
are realities, and the twenty-ninth Sonnet is the 
sum of them. 

Of the many theories that offer historical basis 
for the human story, the one which identifies the 
Friend with Willian Herbert, and the Dark Lady 
with Mary Fytton, seemed at least not improbable. 

It should be needless to say that we do not sup- 
pose the daily talk of great poets to partake of 
their " manner," as the gods grant them speech for 
the gods and heroes of their own works. 

The play tries to show The Player a.t close range, 
on a sordid afternoon in South London, when noth- 
ing would go right; and the best beloved of all poets 
felt himself, in his hour of dejection and self-con- 
tempt, deep 

" In disgrace with fortune and men's eyes." 



JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY. 



Cambridge, 
March, 19 17. 



THE TWENTY-NINTH SONNET. 



When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. 

And look upon myself and curse my fate, 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, 

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. 

Haply I think on thee, and then my state. 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings 

That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

WH.LIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



CHARACTERS. 



William Herbert.. .Son of the Earl of Pembroke 

Simeon Dyer A Puritan 

Tobias Host of " The Bear and The Angel " 

Wat Burrow A bear-ward 

Dickon A little boy, son of Tobias 

Chiffin A ballad-monger 

A Prentice 

A Player. . .Master Wni. Shakespeare of the Lord 

Chamberlain's Company 

Mistress Mary Fytton A maid-of-honor to 

Queen Elizabeth 

Mistress Annie Hughes Also of the Court 

Taverners and Prentices 

Time: — An autumn afternoon in the year 1599, 
A. D. 

Place : — South London. 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 



Scene: — Interior of " The Bear and the Angel," in 
South London. At hack, the center entrance 
gives on a short alley-walk which joins the 
street beyond at a right angle. To right and 
left of this doorway there are casements. 
Front, to the right, a door opens on the inn- 
garden; a second door right, towards the hack, 
leading to a tap-room. Opposite this, left, a 
door leading into a buttery. Left, opposite the 
garden-door, a large chimney-place with a 
smoiddering zvood-fire. A few seats; a lantern 
(unlighted) in a corner. In the foreground to 
the right, a long and narrow table with several 
mugs of ale upon it, also a lute. 

At one end of the table Wat Burrow is fin- 
ishing his ale and holding forth to the Prentice 
{zvho thrums the lute) and a group of tavern- 
ers, some smoking. At the further end of the 
table Simeon Dyer observes all with grave 
curiosity. Tobias, the host, and Dickon draw 
near. 

Prentice {singing). — 

What do I give for the Pope and his riches! 
Ts my ale and my Sunday breeches; 
Ts an old master, Ts a young lass. 
And we'll eat green goose, come Martinmas 
7 



8 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

Sing Rowdy Dowdy, 
Look ye don't crowd me: 
I's a good club, 

— So let me pass! 
Dickon. — 

x\gain ! again ! 
Prentice. — 

Sing Rowdy — 
Wat {finishing his beer). — 

Swallow it down. 
Sling all such froth and follow me to the Bear ! 
They stay for me, lined up to see us pass 
From end to end o' the alley. Ho ! You 

doubt ? 
From Lambeth to the Bridge ! 
Prentices. — ) Tis so; ay. 
Taverners,— \ Come, follow ! Come. 
Wat.— 

Greg's stuck his ears 
With nosegays, and his chain is wound about 
Like any May-pole. What? I tell ye, boys, 
Ye have seen no such bear, a Bear o' Bears, 
Fit to bite off the prophet, in the show. 
With seventy such boys. 

(Pulling Dickon's ear.) 

Bears, say you, bears? 
Why, Rursus Major, as your scholars tell, 
A royal bear, the greatest in his day. 
The sport of Alexander, unto Nick — 
Was a ewe-lamb dyed black, no worse, no 

worse ! 
To-morrow come and see him with the dogs ; 
He'll not give way, — not he ! 
Dickon. — 

To-morrow's Thursday! 
To-morrow's Thursday! 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 9 

Prentice. — 

Will ye lead by here? 

Tobias. — 

Ay, that would be a sight. Wat, man, this 
way! 

Wat.— 

Ho, would you squinch us? Why, there be a 

press 
O' gentry by this tide to measure Nick 
And lay their wagers, at a blink of him. 
Against to-morrow ! Why, the stairs be full. 
To-morrow you shall see the Bridge a-creak, 
The river — dry with barges, — London gape, 
Gape ! While the Borough buzzes like a hive 
With all their worships ! Sirs, the fame o' 

Nick 
Has so pluckt out the gentry by the sleeve, 
'Tis said the Queen would see him. 

Tobias. — ) Ay, 'tis grand. 

Dickon. — ) O-oh, the Queen? 

Prentice. — 

How now ? What man art thou to lead a bear, 
Drink all ; drink to the Queen ! 

Tobias. — 
Ay, now. 

Wat.— 

To her ! — 

You, boy, put by this saying with your pint: 
" The Queen, her high and glorious maj- 
esty ! " 

Simeon (gravely). — 

Long live the Queen! 

Wat.— 

Maker of golden laws 
For baitings ! She that cherishes the Borough 
And shines upon our pastimes. By the mass ! 
Thank her for the crowd to-morrow. But for 
her, 



lo FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

We were a homesick handful of brave souls 
That love the royal sport. These mouthing 

players, 
These hookers, would 'a' spoiled us of our 
beer — 
Prentice. — 

Lying by to catch the gentry at the stairs, — 
All pressing towards Bear Alley — 
Wat.— 

To run 'em in 
At stage-plays and show-fooleries on the way; 
Stage-plays, with their tart-nonsense and their 

flags. 
Their " Tamerlanes " and " Humors " and 

what not ! 
My life on't, there v/as not a man of us 
But fared his Lent, by reason of their fatness, 
And on a holiday ate not at all ! 
Tobias (solemnly). — 

Tis so; 'tis so. 
Wat.— 

But when she heard it told 
How lean our sport was grown, she damns 

stage-plays 
O' Thursday. So: Nick gets his turn to 
growl ! 
Prentice. — 

As well as any player. 

(With a dumb show of ranting among the tavern- 

ers.) 
Wat.— 

Players? — Hang them! 
I know 'em, L I've been with 'em. ... I was 
As sweet a gentlewoman, in my voice. 
As any of your finches that sings small. 
Tobias. — 

'Twas high. 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. ii 

{Enter The Player, followed by Chiffin, the bal- 
lad-monger. He looks worn and tired.) 

Wat {lingering at the table). — 

I say, I've played. 

. . . There's not one man 

Of all the gang — save one . . . Ay, there be 
one 

I grant you, now! ... He used me in right 
sort; 

A man worth better trades. 

{Seeing The Player) — Lord love you, sir! 

Why, this is you indeed. Tis a lon^ day, sir, 

Since I clapped eyes on you. But even now 

Your name was on my tongue, as pat as 
ale! 

You see me off. We bait to-morrow, sir; 

Will you come seer Nick's fresh, and every 
soul 

As hot to see the fight, as 'tv/ere to be, 

Man Daniel, baited with the lions ! 
Tobias. — 

Sir, 

'Tis high . . . 'tis high. 
Wat.— 

We show him in the street 

With dogs and all, ay, now, if you will see. 
The Player. — 

Why, so I will. A show, and I not there ? 

Bear it out bravely, Wat. High fortune, man ! 

Commend me to thy bear. 

{Drinks and passes him the cup.) 

Wat.— 

Lord love you, sir ! 
'Twas ever so you gave a man godspeed. . . . 



12 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 

And yet your spirits flag; you look but palely. 
I'll take your kindness, thank ye. 

{Turning away.) 

In good time ! 
Come after me and Nick, now. Folio v/ all ; 
Come boys, come, pack ! 

{Exit Wat, still descanting. Exe^int most of the 
taverners, with the Prentice. Simeon Dyer 
draws near The Player, regarding him 
gravely. Chiffin sells ballads to those who 
go out. Dickon is about to follow them, zuhen 
Tobias holds him by the ear.) 

Tobias. — 

What ? Not so fast, you there ! 
Who gave you holiday? Bide by the inn; — 
Tend on our gentry. 

{Exit after the crowd.) 

Chiffin. — 

Ballads, gentlemen? 
Ballads, new ballads? 
Simeon {to The Player). — 

With your pardon sir, 
I am gratified to note your abstinence 
From this deplorable fond merriment 
Of baiting of a bear. 
The Player. — 

Your friendship then, 
Takes pleasure in the heaviness of my legb 
Save I am weary, I would see the bear. 
Nay, rest you happy; malt shall comfort us. 
Simeon. — 

You do mistake me. I am— - 
Chiffin. — 

Ballad, sir? 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 13 

" How a Young Spark would Woo a Tanner's 

Wife, 
And She Sings Sweet in Turn." 

vSi M EG N ( indignan t). — 

Abandoned poet! 
CiiiFFiN {indignant) . — 
Vm no such thing! — 

An honest ballad, sir. 
No poetry at all. 
The Playei^. — 

Good, sell thy wares, 
Chiffin.— 

" A Ballad of a Virtuous Country-Maid, 
Forswears the Follies of the Flaunting 

Town " — 
And tends her geese all day, and weds a vicar. 
Simeon. — 

A godlier tale, in sooth. But speak, my 

man; 
If she be virtuous, and the tale a true one, 
Can she not do't in prose? 
The Player. — 

Beseech her, man. 
'Tis scandal she should use a measure so. 
For no more sin than dealing out false measure. 
Was Dame Sapphira slain. 
Simeon. — 

You are with me, sir ; 
Although methinks you do mistake the sense 
O' that you have read. . . . This jigging, jog- 
trot rime. 
This ring-me-round, debaseth mind and matter, 
To make the reason giddy — 
Chiffin (to The Player).— 

Ballad, sir? 
" Hear All ! " A fine brave ballad of a Fish 
New catched off Dover ; nay, a one-eyed fish. 
With teeth in double rows ! 



14 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

The Player. — 

Nay, nay, go to! 
CiiiFFiN ( eloquenth) . — 

" My Fortune's Folly," then ; or '' The True 

Tale 
Of an angry Gull ; " or '* Cherries Like Me 

Best." 
*' Black Sheep, or Flow a Cut- Purse Robbed 
His Mother;" 
''The Prentice and the Dell!" . . . "Plays 

Play not Fair," 
Or how a gentlezv Oman's heart was took 
By a player, that was king in a stage-play. . . . 
" The Merry Salutation," — ** How a Spark 
Would Woo a Tanner's Wife ! "— " The Dire- 
ful Fish "— 
Cock's passion, sir ! not buy a cleanly ballad 
Of the great fish, late ta'en off Dover coast, 
Having two heads and teeth in double rows? 
Salt fish catched in fresh water? . . . 
'Od's my life ! 

What if, or salt or fresh? A prodigy ! 
A ballad like " Hear All ! " — And me and mine, 
Five children and a wife would bait the devil, 
May lap the water out o' Lambeth Marsh 
Before he'll buy a ballad ! Aly poor wife, 
That lies a-weeping for a tansy-cake ! 
Body o' me, shall I smack ale again? 
The Player. — 

Why, here's persuasion; logic, arguments. 
Nay, not the ballad. Read for thine own joy. 
I doubt not but it stretches, honest length. 
From Maid Lane to the Bridge and so across. 
But for thy lengtth of thirst — 

{Giving him a coin.) 

That touches near. 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 15 

Chaffin {apart). — 

A vagrom player, would not buy a tale 

O' the Great Fish with the twy rows o' teeth ! 

Learn you to read ! {Exit.) 

Simeon. — 

Thou seemst, sir, from that I have overheard, 
A man, as one should grant, beyond thy calling. 
I would I might assure thee of the way. 
To urge thee quit this painted infamy. — 
There may be time, seeing thou art still young, 
To pluck thee from the burning. How are ye 

'stroyed. 
Ye foolish grasshoppers ! Cut off, forgotten. 
When moth and rust corrupt your flaunting 

shows, 
1 he earth shall have no memory of 5^oar name ! 

Dickon. - 

Pray you, v/hat's yours ? 

Simeon. — 

I am called Simeon Dyer. 

(There is the sudden uproar of a crowd in the^. 
distance. It continues at intervals for some 
time.) 

. Hey, lads? 

\ Some noise beyond : Come, cud- 
Prentices.- j gels, come! 

' Come on, come on, Pm for it 

{Exeunt all hut The Player, Simeon, and 

Dickon.) 
Simeon. — 

Something untoward, without : or is it rather 
The tumult of some uproar incident 
To this vicinity? 
The Player. — 

It is an uproar 
JMost incident to bears. 
Dickon. — 

I would I knew ! 



i6 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

The Player (holding him off at arm's length). — 
Hey, boy ? We would have tidings of the bear : 
Go thou, I'll be thy surety. Mark him well. 
Omit no fact ; I would have all of it : 
What manner o' bear he is, — how bears him- 
self; 
Number and pattern of ears, and eyes what 

hue; 
His voice and fashion o' coat. Nay, come not 

back. 
Till thou hast all. — Skip, sirrah ! {Exit 
Dickon) 
Simeon. — 

Think, fair sir. 
Take this new word of mine to be a seed 
Of thought in that neglected garden-plot. 
Thy mind, thy worthier part. Na}^, think ! 
The Player. — 

Why, so ; 
Thou hast some right, friend; now and then it 

serves. 
Sometimes I have thought, and even now, 

sometimes. 
... I think. 
Simeon (benevolently). — 

Heaven ripen thought unto an harvest ! (Exit) 

(The Player alone, rises, stretches his arms, and 
paces the floor zvearily.) 

The Player. — 

Some quiet now. . . . Why should I thirst 

for it. 
Alone with the one man of all living men 
I have least cause to honor ! . . She is too 

false 
At last, to keep a spaniel's loyalty. 
I do believe it. And by my own soul, 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 17 

She shall not have me, what remains of me 
That may be beaten back into the ranks. 
I will not look upon her. . . . Bitter Sweet. 
This fever that torments me day by day — 
Call it not love, — this servitude, this spell 
That haunts me like a sick man's fantasy, 
With pleading of her eyes, her voice, her 

eyes — 
It shall not have me. I am too much stained : 
Cut, God or no God, yet I do not live 
And have to bear my ov/n soul company. 
To have to stoop so low. She looks on 

Herbert. 
Oh, I have seen ! But he, — he must withstand 

her! 
For my sake, yes, for my sake ! — Fll not 

doubt . . . 
His honor ; nor the love he hath to me ; — 
As Jonathon to David. — Fll not doubt. 
He knows what I have suffered, — suffer still — 
Although I love her not. Her ways, her 

ways. 
It is her ways that eat into the heart, 
With beauty more than Beauty ; and her voice, 
That silvers o'er the meaning of her speech 
Like moonshine on black waters. Ah, un- 
coil ! . . . 
He's the sure morning after this dark dream ; 
Wide daylight and west wind, of a lad's love; 
With all his golden pride, for my dull hours. 
Still climbing sunward. Sinks all love in him! 
And cleanse me of this cursed, fell distrust 
That marks the pestilence. "" Fair, kind, and 

true." 
Lad, lad. How could I turn from friendliness 
To worship such false gods? . . . 
*' Fair, kind, and true." And yet, if She were 

true, — 



i8 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

To me, though false to all things else; — one 

truth, 
So one truth lived — . One truth ! O beggared 

soul, 
— Foul Lazarus, so starved it can make shift 
To feed on crumbs of honor ! — Am I this ? 

(Enter Anne Hughes. She has been running, in 
evident terror, and stands against the closed 
door looking about her.) 

Anne. — 

Are you the inn-keeper? 

(TiiE Player turns and bo7vs courteously.) 

Nay, sir, your pardon. 
I saw you not . . . And yet your face, me- 

thinks, — 
But — yes, Em sure. . . . 

But where's the inn-keeper ? 
I know not where I am, nor where to go ! 
The Player. — 

Madam, it is my fortune that I may 
Procure you service. {Going towards the 
door) 

{The uproar sounds nearer.) 

Anne. — 

Nay ! what if the bear — 
The Player. — 
The bear? 
Anne. — 

The door ! The bear is broken loose. 
Did you not hear? I scarce could make my 

way 
Through that rank crowd, in search of some 
safe place. 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 19 

You smile, sir! But you had not seen the 

bear, — 
Nor I, this morning ! Pray you, hear me out, — 
For surely you are gentler than the place. 
I came ... I came by water ... to the 

Garden, 
Alone, . . . from bravery, to see the show 
And tell of it hereafter at the Court ! 
There's one of us makes count of all such 

'scapes, — 
('Tis Mistress Fytton). She will ever tell 
The sport it is to see the people's games 
Among themselves, — to go incognita, — 
And take all, as it is not for the Queen, 
Gallants and rabble ! But by Banbury Cross, 
I am of tamer mettle ! — All alone. 
Among ten thousand noisy watermen; 
And then the foul ways leading from the Stair ; 
And then ... no friends I knew, nay, not a 

face. 
And my dear nose beset, and my pomander 
Lost in the rout, — or else a cut-purse had it : 
And then the bear breaks loose ! Oh, 'tis a day 
Full of vexations, nay, and dangers too. 
I would I had been slower to outdo 
The pranks of Mary Fytton. . . . You know 

her, sir? 
The Player. — 

If one of my plain calling may be said 

To know a maid-of -honor. (More lightly) 

And yet more : — 
My heart has cause to know the lady's face. 
Anne (blankly). — Why, so it is. . . . Is't not a 

marvel, sir. 
The way she hath? Truly, her voice is 

good. . . . 
And yet, — but oh, she charms ; I hear it said. 
A winsome gentlevv^oman, of a wit, too. 



20 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

We are great fellows ; she tells nie all she does ; 
And, sooth, I listen till my ears be like 
To grow, for wonder. Whence my 'scape, to- 
day ! 
Oh, she hath daring for the pastimes here; 
I would — change looks with her, to have her 

spirit ! 
Indeed, they say she charms Some-one, by this. 
The Player. — 

Some one. ... 
Anne. — 

Hast heard? 

Why, sure my Lord of Herbert, 
Ay, Pembroke's son. But there I doubt, — I 

doubt. 
He is an eagle will not stoop for less 
Than kingly prey. No bird-lime takes him. 
The Player. — 

He hath shown many favors to us players. 

Herbert. . . . 
Anne. — 

Ah, now I have you ! 

The Player. — 

Surely, gracious madam; 
My duty; . . . what beside? 
Anne. — 

This face of yours. 
'Twas in some play, belike. (Apart) . . . 

I took him for 
A man it should advantage me to know ! 
And he's a proper man enough. . . . Ay me ! 

(When she speaks to him again if is zvith encourag- 
ing condescension.) 

Surely you've been at Whitehall, Master 
Player ? 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 21 

The Player {bowing). — 

So. 
Anne. — 

And how oft? And when? 
The Player. — 

Last Christmas tide; 
And Twelfth Day eve, perchance. Your mem- 
ory 
Freshens a dusty past. . . . The hubbub's over. 
Shall I look forth and fmd some trusty boy 
To attend you to the river? 
Anne. — 

I thank you, sir. 

{He goes to the door and steps out into the alley, 
looking up and down. The noise in the dis- 
tance springs up again.) 

{Apart demurely) 'Tis not past sufferance. 

Marry, I could stay 
Some moments longer, till the streets be safe. 
Sir, sir ! 
The Player {returning). — 

Command me, madam. 
Anne. — 

I will wait 
A little longer, lest I meet once more 
That ruffian mob, or any of the dogs. 
These sports are better seen from balconies. 
The Play^er. — 

Will you step hither ? There's an arbored walk 
Sheltered and safe. Should they come by 

again, 
You may see all, an't like you, and be hid. 
Anne. — 

A garden there? Come, you shall show it me. 

(They go out into the garden on the right, leaving 



22 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

the door shut. Enter immediately, in great 
haste, Mary Fytton and William Herbert, 
followed by Dickon, who looks about and 
seeing no one, goes to setting things in order.) 

Mary. — 

Quick, quick! . . . She must have seen me. 

Those big eyes, 
Hov/ could they miss me, peering as she was 
For some famihar face? She would have 

known, 
Even before my mask was jostled off 
In that wild rabble . . . bears and bearish men ! 
Herbert. — 

Why would you have me bring you ? 
Mary. — (Gaily) 

Why? Ah, why! 
Sooth, once I had a reason : nov\^ 'tis lost, — 
Lost ! Lost ! Call out the bell-man. 
Dickon (seriously). — 

Shall I so? 
Herbert. — 

Nay, nay; that were a merriment indeed. 
To cry us through the streets ! (To Mary) 
You riddling charm. 
Mary. — 

A riddle yet? You almost love me, then. 
Herbert. — 

Almost ? 
Mary. — 

Because you cannot understand. 
Alas, when all's unriddled, the charm goes. 
Herbert. — 

Come, you're not melancholy? 
Mary. — 

Nay, are you? 
But should Nan Hughes have seen us, and 
spoiled all — 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 23 

Herbert. — 

How could she so ? 
Mary. — 

I know not . . . Yet I know 

If she had met us, she could steal To-day, 

Golden To-day ! 
Herbert. — 

A kiss ; and so forget her. 
Mary. — 

Hush, hush, — the tavern-boy there. 

{To Dickon) Tell me, boy, — 

{To Herbert) Some errand, now; a roc's 

Strike thy wit. 
Herbert. — 

What is't you miss ? Why, so. The lady's lost 
A very curious reason, wrought about 
W^ith diverse broidery. 
Mary. — 

Nay, 'twas a mask. 
Herbert. — 

A mask, arch-wit? Why will you mock your- 
self 
And all your fine deceits? Your mask, your 

reason, 
Your reason with a m.ask ! 
Mary. — 

You are too merry. 
{To Dickon) A mask it is, and m.uuler finely 

wrought 
With little amber points all hung like bells. 
I lost it as I came, somewhere. . . . 
Herbert. — 

Somewhere 
Between the Paris Gardens and the Bridge. 
Mary. — 

Or below Bridge, — or haply in the Thames ! 



24 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

Herbert. — 

No matter where, so you do bring it back. 

Fly, Mercury! Here's feathers for thy heels. 
(Giving coin) 
Mary (aside). — 

Weights, weights! (Exit Dickon) 

(Herbert looks about him, opens the door of the 
tap-room, grozvs troubled. She watches him 
with dissatisfaction, seeming to warm her feet 
by the fire meanzvhile.) 

Herbert (apart). — 

I know this place. We used to come 
Together, he and I . . . 
Mary (apart). — 

Forgot again. 
O the capricious tides, the hateful calms, 
And the too eager ship that would be gone 
Adventuring against uncertain winds, 
For some new, utmost sight of Happy Isles ! 
Becalmed, — becalmed . . . But I will break 
this calm. 

(She sees the lute on the table, crosses and takes 
it up, running her fingers over the strings very 
softly. She sits.) 

Herbert. — 

Ah, mermaid, is it you? 
Mary. — 

Did you sail far? 
Herbert. — 

Not I ; no, sooth. (Crossing to her) 

Mermaid, I would not think. 
But you — 
Mary. — 

I think not. I remember nothing. 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 25 

There's nothing in the world but you and me; 
All else is dust. Thou shalt not question me ; 
Or if, — but as a sphinx in woman-shape: 
And if thou fail at answer, I shall turn, 
And rend thy heart and cast thee from the cliff. 

{She leans her head hack to kiss him.) 

So perish all who guess not what I am ! . . . 
Oh, but I know you : you are April-Days. 
Nothing is sure, but all so beautiful ! 

{^She runs her finger up the strings, one by one, and 
listens, speaking to the lute.) 

Is it not so ? Come, answer. Is it true ? 
Speak, sweeting, since I love thee best of late, 
And have forsook my virginals for thee. 
All's beautiful indeed and all unsure? 
''Ay'' . . . (Did you hear?) He's fair and 
faithless? " Ay." {Speaking with the 
lute) 
Herbert. — 

Poor oracle, with only one reply! — 
Wherein 'tis unlike thee. 
Mary. — 

Could he love aught 
So well as his own image in the brook, 
Having once seen it? 
Herbert. — 

Ay! 
Mary. — 

The lute saith " No!' . . . 
O dullard! Here were tidings, would you 

mark. 
What said I ? Oracle, coidd he love aught 
So dear as his own image in the brook, 
Having once looked? . . . No, truly. 



26 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

(With sudden abandon) Nor can I! 
Herbert. — 

leave this game of words, you thousand- 

tongued. 
Sing, sing to me. So shall I be all Amours 
Forever ; — or at least till you be still ! . . . 

1 used to wonder he should be thy slave :- 

I wonder now no more. Your ways are won- 
ders; 
You have a charm to make a man forget 
His past and yours, and everything but you. 
Mary (speaking with her eyes on his face). — 
" When daisies pied and violets blue 
And lady-smocks all silver-white" — 
How now? 
Herbert. — 

How now ! That song . . . thou w41t sing 
that? 
Mary. — 

Marry, what mars the song? 
Herbert. — 

Have you forgot 
Who made it? 
Mary. — 

Soft, what idleness So fine? — 
So rude? And bid me sing! You get but si- 
lence ; 
Or, if I sing, — beshrew me, it shall be 
A dole of song, a little starveling breath 
As near to silence as a song can be. 

{She sings under-breath, fantastically.) 

Say how many kisses he 
Lent and lost twixt you and m.ef 
" Can I tell when they begun? " 
Nay, but this were prodigal: 
Let us learn to count withal. 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 27 

Since no ending is to spending, 

Sum our riches, one by one. 

" You shall keep the reckoning, 

Count each kiss zvhile I do sing." 
Herbert. — 

Oh, not these Httle wounds. You vex my 

heart ; 
Heal it again with singing, — come, sweet, come. 
Into the garden ! None shall trouble us. 
This place has memories and conscience too : 
Drown all, my mermaid. AVind them in your 

hair 
And drown them, drown them all. 

(He swings open the garden-door for her. At the 
same moment Anne's voice is heard approach- 
ing.) 

Anne {without). — 

Some music there? 
Herbert. — 

Perdition ! Quick, — behind me, love. 

{Swinging the door shut again, and looking through 
the crack.) 

Mary. — 

'Tis she — 
Nan Hughes, 'tis she! Hov/ came she here? 

By heaven, 
She crosses us to-day. Nan Hughes lights here 
In a Bank tavern ! Nay, I'll not be seen. ■ 
Sooner or later it must mean the wreck 
Of both . . . should the Queen know. 
Herbert. — 

The spite of chance ! 
She talks with some one in the arbor there . . . 
Whose face I see not. Come, here's doors at 
least. 



28 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

{They cross hastily. Mary opens the door on the 
left and looks within.) 

Mary. — 

Too thick. ... I shall be penned. But guard 
you this 

And tell me when they're gone. Stay, stay; — 
mend all. 

If she have seen me, — swear it was not I. 

Heaven speed her hence, with her new body- 
guard ! 

{Exit, closing door. Herbert looks out into the 
garden. ) 

Herbert. — 

By all accursed chances, — none but he ! 

{Retires up to stand beside the door, looking out of 
casement. Reenter from the garden, Anne, 
followed by The Player,) 

Anne. — 

No, 'twas some maagic in my ears, I think. 

There's no one here. {Seeing Herbert) 

But yes, there's some one here: — 

The innkeeper. Are you — 

Saint Catherine's ruff! 

My Lord of Herbert. Sir, 3^ou could not look 

More opportune. But for this gentleman — 
Herbert {bowing). — 

My friend, this long time since, — 
Anne. — 

Marry, your friend? 
The Player {regarding Herbert searchingly). — 

This long time since. 
Anne. — 

Nay, is it so, indeed? 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 29 

{To Herbert) My day's fulfilled of blunders ! 

O sweet sir, 
How can I tell you? But I'll tell you all, 
If you'll but bear me escort from this place 
Where none of us belongs. Yours is the first 
Familiar face I've seen this afternoon ! 
Herbert {apart). — 
A sweet assurance. 

{Aloud) But you seek . . . you need 
Some rest — some cheer, some — will you step 

within? {Pointing to the tap-room) 
The tavern seems deserted, but — 
Anne. — 

Not here ! 
I've been here quite an hour. Come, citywards, 
To Whitehall ! I have had enough of bears 
To quench my longing till next Whitsuntide. 
Down to the river, pray you. 
Herbert. — 

Sooth, at once ? 
Anne. — 

At once, at once ! 

{To The Player) I crave your pardon, sir, 

For sundering your friendships. I've heard 

say 
Some woman ever crosses 'twixt two men. 
To their confusion. You shall drink amends 
Some other day. I must be safely home. 
The Player {half reassured). — 

It joys me that your trials have found an end; 
And for the rest, I wish you prosperous voy- 
age; 
Which needs not, with such halcyon weather 
toward. 
Herbert {apart). — 

It cuts : and yet he knows not. Can it pass ? 
{To him) Let us mieet soon. I have — I knov/ 
not what 



30 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

To say — nay, no import ; but chance has parted 
Our several ways too long. To leave you thus, 
Without a word — 

Anne. — (Pettishly) 

You are in haste, my lord ! 

By the true faith, here are two friends indeed ! 

Two lovers crossed: and I, — 'tis I that bar 

them! 
Pray tarry, sir. I doubt not I may light 
Upon some link-boy to attend me home, 
Or else a drunken prentice with a club, 
Or that patched keeper strolling from the Gar- 
den 
With all his dogs along; or failing them, 
A pony with a monkey on his back, 
Or, failing that, a bear! Some escort, sure, 
Such as the Borough offers ! I shall look 
Part of a pageant from the Lady Fair, 
And boast for three full moons, " Such sights I 

saw ! " 
Truly, 'tis nev/ to me : but I doubt not 
I shall trick out a mind for strange adventure. 
As high as — Mistress Fytton ! 

Herbert. — 

Say no more, 
Dear lady ! I entreat you pardon me 
The lameness of my wit. I'm stark adream; 
You lighted here so suddenly, unlooked for 
Vision in Bankside ! Let me hasten you. . . . 
Now that I see I dream not. It grows late. 

Anne. — 

And can you grant me such a length of time ? 

Herbert. — 

Length ? Say Illusion ! Time ? Alas, 'twill be 
Only a poor half -hour, (loudly) a poor half- 

hour ! 
(Apart) Could she hear that, I wonder? 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 31 

The Player (bowing over Anne's hand). — 

Not so, madam; 
A little gold of largess, fallen to me 
By chance. 
Herbert {to him). — 

A word with you — 
{Apart) O, I am gagged! 
Anne ( to The Player). — 
You go with us, sir? 

{He moves towards door with them.) 

Tpie Player. — 

No, I do but play 
Your inn-keeper. 
Herbert {apart, despairingly). — 

The eagle is gone blind. 

{Exeunt all three, leaving the doors open. They 
are seen to go down the walk together. At the 
street they pause, The Player bowing slowly, 
then turning back towards the inn; Anne hold- 
ing Herbert's arm. Within, the door on the 
left opens slightly, then Mary appears.) 

Mary.— 

'Tis true. My ears caught silence, if no more. 
They're gone. . . . 

{She conies out of her hiding-place and opens the 
left-hand casement to see Anne disappearing 
with Herbert.) 

She takes him with her ! He'll return ? 

Gone, gone, without a word; and I was 

caged, — 
And deaf as wxU. O, spite of everything ! 
She's so unlike. . . . How long shall I be here 



32 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

To wait and wonder ? He with her — with her ! 

(The Player, having come slowly hack to the door, 
hears her voice. Mary darts towards the en- 
trance to look after Herbert and Anne. She 
sees him and recoils. She falls hack step hy 
step, while he stands with his hands upon the 
door-posts, impassive.) 

You! . . . 
The Player. — 

Yes. . . . {After a pause) 
And you. 
Mary.— 

Do you not ask me why 
Fm here? 
The Player. — 

I am not wont to shun the truth; 
But yet I think the reason you could give 
Were too uncomely. 
Mary.— 

Nay; — 
The Player. — 

If it were truth. . . . 
If it were truth! Although that likelihood 
Scarce threatens. 
Mary. — 

— So. Condemned without a trial. 
The Player. — 

O, speak the lie now. Let there be no chanct 
For my unsightly love, bound head and foot, 
Stark, full of woimds and horrible, to find 
Escape from out its charnel-house; — to rise 
Unwelcome, before eyes that had forgot. 
And say it died not truly. It should die. 
Play no imposture; leave it, — it is dead. 
I have been weak, in that I tried to pour 
The wine through plague-struck veins. It came 
to life 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 33 

Over and over, drew sharp breath again 
In torture such as't may be to be born, 
If a poor babe could tell. Over and over, 
I tell you, it has suffered resurrection, 
Cheating its pain with hope, only to die, 
Over and over; — die more deaths than men 
The meanest, most forlorn, are made to die 
By tyranny or nature. . . . Now I see all 
Clear. And I say, it shall not rise again. 
I am as safe from you as I were dead. 
I know you. 

Mary.— 

Herbert — 

The Player. — 

Do not touch his name. 
Leave that; I saw. 

Mary. — 

You saw? Nay, what? 

The Player. — 

The whole 
Clear story. — Not at first. While you were hid, 
I took some comfort, drop by drop, and minute 
By minute. ( Dullard ! ) Yet there was a maze 
Of circumstance that showed even then to me, 
Perplext and strange. You here, unravel it. 
All's clear: you are the clevv^ (Turning away) 

Mary (going to the casement) — 
(Apart) Caged, caged! 
Does he know all? Why were those walls so 

dense ? 
(To him) Nan Hughes hath seized the time to 

tune your mind 
To som^e light gossip. Say, how came she 
here? 

The Player. — 

All emulation, thinking to match you 

In high adventure : — liked it not, poor lady ! 

And is gone home, attended. 



34 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

{Reenter Dickon.) 

Dickon {to Mary). — 

They be lost! — 

Thy mask and muffler; — 'tis no help to search. 

Some hooker Vv^ould 'a' swallowed 'em, be sure. 

As the whale swallows Jonas, in the sliow. 
Mary.— 

'Tis nought: I care not. 
Dickon {looking at the fire). — 

Hey, it wants a log. 

{While he mends the fire, hiininiing, The Player 
stands by him taking thought. Mary speaks 
apart, going to casement again to look out.) 

Mary {apart). — 

I will have what he knows. To cast me off : — 
Not thus, not thus. Peace, I can blind him yet. 
Or he'll despise me. Nay, I will not be 
Thrust out at door like this. I will not go 
But by mine own free will. There is no power 
Can say what he might do to ruin us, 
To win Will Herbert from me,— almost mine. 
And I all his, all his — O April-Days ! — 
Well, friendship against love? I know v/ho 

wins. 
He is grown dread. . . . But yet he is a man. 

{Exit Dickon into tap-room^) 

{To The Player, suavely.) 

Well, headsman? {He does not turn) 

Mind your office: I am judged. 
Guilty, was it not so? . . . What is to do, 
Do quickly. . . . Do you wait for some re- 
prieve? 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 35 

Guilty, you said. Nay, do you turn your face 
To give me some small leeway of escape ? 
And yet, I will not go. 

{Coming down slowly.) 

Well, headsman? . . . 
You ask not why I came here. Clouded Brow, 
Will you not ask me why I stay ? No word ? 

blind, come lead the blind ! For I, I too 
Lack sight and every sense to linger here 
And make me an intruder, where I once 
Was welcome, oh m.ost welcome, as I dreamed ! 
Look on me, then. I do confess, I have 

Too often preened my feathers in the sun. 
And thought to rule a little, by my wit. 

1 have been spendthrift with men's offerings 
To use them like a nosegay, — tear apart. 
Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, until 

I found the heart all bare, the curious heart 
I longed to see, for once, and cast away. 
And so, at first, with you. . . . Ah, now I 

think 
You're wise. There's nought so fair, so . . . 

curious. 
So precious-rare to find, as honesty. 
'Twas all a child's play then; a counting-off 
Of petals. Now I know. . . . But ask me why 
I come unheralded, and in a mist 
Of circmnstance and strangeness. Listen, 

love, — 
Well then, dead love, if you will have it so. 
I have been cunning, cruel, — what you will : 
And yet the days of late have seemed too long 
Even for summer ! Something called me here. 
And so I flung my pride away and came, — 
A very woman for my foolishness ! — 
To say once more, — to say . . . 



36 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

The Player. — 

No, I'll not ask. 
What lacks? I need no more; you have done 

well. 
'Tis rare. There is no man I ever saw 
But you could school him. Women should be 

players. 
You are sovran in the art : feigning and truth 
Are so commingled in you. Sure, to you 
Nature's a simpleton hath never seen 
Her own face in the well ! Is there aught else, 
To ask of my poor calling? 
Mary.— 

I have deserved it 
In other days. Hear how I can be meek. — 
I am come back ; a foot-worn runaway, 
Like any braggart boy. Let me sit down. 
And take Love's horn-book in my hands again, 
And learn from the beginning; — by the rod. 
If you will scourge me, love! Come, come, 

forgive. 
I am not wont to sue : and yet to-day 
I am your suppliant, I am your servant. 
Your link-boy, yes, your minstrel: so, — wilt 

hear? 

{Takes lip the lute, and gives a last look out of the 
casement.) 

The tumult in the street is all apart 
With the discordant past. The hour that is, 
Shall be the only thing in all the world. 
{Apart) I will be safe. He'll not win Her- 
bert from me ! 

{Crossing to him.) 

Will you have music, good my lord? 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 37 

The Player {catching the lute from her). — 

Not that, 
Not that! By heaven, you shall not. . . . 
Nevermore. 
Mary. — 

So . . . But you speak at last. You are, for- 
sooth, 
A man. And you shall use me as my due : — 
A woman, not the wind about your ears; 
A v/oman, whom you loved. 
The Player {half -apart, still holding the lute). — 
Why were you not 
That beauty that you seemed? . . . But had 

you been, 
'Tis true, you would have had no word for 

me, — 
No looks of love. 
Mary.— 

The man reproaches me? 
The Player. — 

Not I— not I. . . . Will Herbert, what am I 
To lay this broken trust to you ? — To you. 
Young, free, and tempted : April on his way. 
Whom all hands reach for, and this woman 

here 
Had set her heart upon! 
Mary. — {With sudden fury) 
What fantasy! 

Surely he must have been from town of late, 
To see the gude-folk ! And hov/ fare they, sir? 
Reverend yeoman, say, how thrive the sheep? 
What did the harvest yield you? — Did you 

count 
The cabbage heads? and find how like . . . 

nay, nay ! 
But our gude-wife, did she bid in the neighbors 
To prove them that her husband was no myth ? 
Some Puritan preacher, nay, some journeyman, 



38 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

To make you sup the sweeter with long pray- 
ers? 
This were a rare conversion, by my soul ! 
From sonnets unto sermons: — eminent! 
The Player. — 

Oh, yes, your scorn bites truly: sermons next. 
There is so much to say. But it must be 

learned ; 
And I require hard schooling, dream too much 
On what I would men were, — but women most. 
I need the cudgel of the task-master 
To make me con the truth. Yes, blind, you 

called me, 
And 'tis my shame I bandaged mine own eyes 
And held them dark. Now, bv the grace of 

God, 
Or haply because the devil ttries too far, 
I tear the blindfold off, and I see all. 
I see you as you are ; and in your heart 
The secret love sprung up for one I loved, 
A reckless boy who has trodden on my soul — 
But that's a thing apart, concerns not you. 
I know that you will stake your heaven and 

earth 
To fool me, — fool us both. 
Mary {with some interest). — 

Why were you not 
So stern a long time since? You're not so v/ise 
As I have heard them sa}^ 
The Player {standing by the chimney). — 

Wise? Oh, not I. 
Who was so witless as to call me wise? 
Sure he had never bade me a good-day 
And seen me take the cheer ! . . . 

I was your fool 
Too long. ... I am no longer anything. 
Speak: what are you? 
Mary {after a pause). — The foolishest of women: 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 39 

A heart that should have been adventurer 

On the high seas ; a seeker in new lands, 

To dare all and to lose. But I was made 

A woman. 

Oh, you see ; — could you see all ! 

What if I say . . . the truth is not so far, 

(Watching him.) 

Yet farther than you dream. If I confess . . . 
He charmed my fancy . . . for the moment, — 

ay 
The shine of his fortunes too, the veiy name 
Of Pembroke? . . . Dear my judge, — ah, 

clouded brow 
And darkened fortune, be not black to me ! 
I'd try for my escape; the window's wide, 
No one forbids, and yet I stay — I stay. 

Oh, I was niggard, once, mikind — I know, 
Untrusty: loved, unloved you, day by day: 
A little and a little, — why, I knew not. 
And more, and wondered why; — then not at 

all !— 
Drank up the dew from out your very heart. 
Like the extortionate sun, to leave you parched ; 
Till, with as little grace, I flung all back 
In gusts of angry rain ! I have been cruel. 
But the spell works; yea, love, the spell, the 

spell 
Fed by your fasting, by your subtlety 
Past ail men's knowledge. . . . There is some- 
thing rare 
About you that I long to flee and cannot: — 
Some mastery . . . that's more my will than I. 

(She laughs softly. He listens, looking straight 
ahead, not at her, motionless, but suffering evi- 
dently. She watches his face and speaks with 



40 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

greater intensity. Here she crosses nearer and 
falls on her knees.) 

Ah, look : you shall believe, you shall believe. 

Will you put by your Music? Was I that? 

Your Music, — very Music? . . . Listen, then, 

Turn not so blank a face. Thou hast my love. 

I'll tell thee so, till thought itself shall tire 

And fall a-dreaming like a weary child; . . . 

Only to dream of you, and in its sleep 

To murmur You. . . . Ah, look at me, love, 
lord . . . 

Whom queens would honor. Read these eyes 
you praised. 

That pitied, once, — that plead for pity now. 

But look ! You shall not turn from me — 
The Player. — 

Eyes, eyes ! — 

The darkness hides so much. 
Mary. — 

He'll not believe. . . . 

What can I do ? What more, — what more, you 
. . . man? 

I bruise my heart here, at an iron gate. . . . 

{She regards him gloomily without rising.) 

Yet there is one thing more. . . . You'll take 

me, now — 
My meaning. You were right. For once I 

say it. 
There is a glory of discovery {Ironically) 
To the black heart . . . because it may be 

known 
But once, — but once. ... 

I wonder men will hide 
Their motives all so close. If they could 

guess, — 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 41 

It is so new to feel the open day 
Look in on all one's hidings, at the end. 



{She shrugs her shoulders, rises, and stands off, 
regarding him fixedly.) 

So. . . . You were right. The first was all a 
lie: 

A lie, and for a purpose 

Now, — 

And why, I know not, — but 'tis true, at last, 

I do believe ... I love you. 

— Look at me ! 

(He stands by the fireside against the chimney- 
piece. She crosses to him with passionate ap- 
peal, holding out her arms. He turns his eyes 
and looks at her with a rigid scrutiny. She 
endures it for a second, then wavers; makes 
an effort, unable to look away, to lift her arms 
towards his neck; they falter and fall at her 
side. The two stand spell-bound by mutual 
recognition. Then she speaks in a strained 
voice.) 

Mary. — 

Oh, let me go! 

{She turns her head with an effort, — gathers her 
cloak about her; hesitates with averted eyes, 
then hastens out as if from some terror.) 

(The Player is alone beside the chimney-piece. 
The street outside is darkening with twilight 
through the casements and upper door. There 
is a sound of rough-throated singing that comes 



42 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

by and is softened with distance. It breaks the 
spell) 

The Player. — 

So; it is over . . . now. {He looks into the 
fire.) 

Fair, kind, and true. — And true. — My golden 

friend ! 
Both . . . both, together. . . . He was ill at 

ease. 
But that he should betray me with a kiss ! 

By this preposterous world ... I am in need. 

Shall there be no faith left? Nothing but 
names ? 

Then he's a fool who steers his life by such. 

Why not the body- com fort of this herd 

Of creatures huddled here to keep them 
warm ? — 

Trying to drown out with enforced laughter 

The query of the winds . . . unanswered 
winds 

That scourge the soul with a perpetual doubt. 

What holds me? — Bah, that were a Cause, in- 
deed! 

To prove your soul one truth, by being it, — 

Against the foul dishonor of the world ! 

How else prove aught? . . . 

I talk into the air. 

And at my feet, my honor full of wounds. 

Honor? Whose honor? For I knew my sin. 

And she . . . had none. There's nothing to 
avenge. 

{He speaks with more and more passion, too dis- 
traught to notice interuptions. Enter Dickon, 
with a tallow-dip. He regards The Player 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 43 

zvith half-open mouth from the corner; then 
stands by the casement, leaning up against it 
and yawning now and then.) 

I had no right : that I could call her mine 
So none should steal her from me, and die for't. 
There's nothing to avenge . . . Brave beg- 
gary ! 
How fit to lodge m.e in this home of Shows, 
With all the ruffian life, the empty mirth. 
The gross imposture of humanity, 
Strutting in virtues it knows not to wear, 
Knave in a stolen garment — all the same — 
Until it grows enamored of a life 
It was not born to, — falls a-dream, poor cheat, 
In the midst of its native shams, — the thieves 

and bears 
And ballad-mongers all ! ... Of such am I. 

{Reenter Tobias and one or two taverners. Tobias 
regards The Player, who does not notice any 
one, — then leads off Dickon hy the ear. Ex- 
eunt into the tap-room. The Player goes to 
the casement, pushes it wide and looks out at 
the sky.) 

Is there nought else? ... I could make shift 

to bind 
My heart up and put on my mail again. 
To cheat myself and death with one fight more. 
If I could think there were some worldly use 
For bitter wisdom. 
But I'm no general, 

That my own hand-to-hand with evil days 
Should cheer my doubting thousands. 

. . . I'm no more 
Than one man lost among a multitude ; 
And in the end dust swallows them — and me, 



44 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

And the good sweat that won our victories. 
Who sees? Or seeing, cares? Who follows 

on? 
Then why should my dishonor trouble me, 
Or broken faith in him? What is it suffers f 
And why? Now that the moon is turned to 

blood. 

{He turns towards the door with involuntary long- 
ing, and seems to listen.) 

No . . . no, he will not come. Well, I have 

nought 
To do but pluck from me my bitter heart, 
And breathe without it. 

{Reenter Dickon with a tankard and a cup. He 
sets them down on a small table; this he pushes 
toward The Player, who turns at the noise.) 

. . . So. It is for me? 
Dickon. — 

Ay, on the score! I had good sight o' the 

bear. 
Look, here's a sprig was stuck on him with 
pitch ; — 

{Rubbing a little green sprig on his sleeve.) 

I caught it up, — from Lambeth marsh, belike. 
Such grow there, and I've seen thee cherish 
such. 
The Player. — 

Give us thy posy. 

{He comes back to the fire and sits in the chair near 
by. Dickon gets out the iron lantern from the 
corner.) 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 45 

Dickon (whistling). — 

Hey ! It wants a light. 

(The Player seems to listen once more, his face 
turned towards the door. He lifts his hand as 
if to hush Dickon, lets it fall, and looks back 
at the fire. Dickon regards him zuith shy long- 
ing and drazvs nearer.) 

Dickon. — 

Thou wilt be always minding of the fire . . 

Wilt thou not ? 
The Player. — 

Dickon. — 

It likes me. too 
The Player. — 

So? 
Dickon. — 

Ay^ . . . 
I v/ould I knew what thou art thinking on 
When thou dost mind the fire. . . . 
The Player. — 

Wouldst thou? 
Dickon. — 

Ay 
{Sound of footsteps outside. A group approachei 
the door.) 

Oh, here he is, come back ! 

The Player {rising zvith passionate eagerness) . — 
Brave lad — brave lad ! 

Dickon {singing). — 

Hang out your lant horns, trim your lights 
To save your days from knavish nights! 

{He plunges zvith his lantern, through the doorway, 



46 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 

stumbling against Wat Burrow zvho enters, a 
sorry figure, the worse for wear.) 

Wat (sourly). — 

Be the times soft, that you must try to cleave 
Why through my ribs as tho' 1 was the 

moon ? — 
And you the man-wi'-the-lanthorn, or his 

dog?— 
You bean! . . (Exit Dickon. Wat shambles 
in and sees The Player) 
Wiiat, you, sir, here? 
The Player. — 

Still here ; ay, Wat. 

( While Wat crosses to the table and gets himself a 
chair, The Player looks at him as if zvith a 
new consciousness of the surroundings. After 
a time he sits as before. Reenter Dickon and 
curls up on the floor, at his feet with bashful 
devotion.) 
Wat.— 

O give me comfort, sir. This cursed day, — 
A wry, damned . . . noisome. . . . Ay, poor 

Nick, poor Nick! 
He's all to mend — Poor Nick ! He's sorely 

maimed, 
More than we'd baited him with forty dogs. 
'Od's body ! Said I not, sir, he would fight ? 
Never before had he, in leading-chain, 
Walked out to take the air and show his 

coat. . . . 
'Went to his noddle like some greenest gull's 
That's new come up to town. . . . The Pren- 
tices 
Squeaking along like Bedlam, he breaks loose 
And prances me a hey, — I dancing counter! 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 47 

Then such a cawing 'mongst the women! 

Next, 
The chain did clatter and enrage him more; — 
You would 'a' sworn a bear grew on each link, 
And after each a prentice with a cudgel, — 
Leaving him scarce an eye ! So, howling all. 
We run a pretty pace . . . and Nick, poor 

Nick, 
He catches on a useless, stumbling fry 
That needed not be born,— and bites into him. 
And then . . . the Constable . . . And now, 
no show! 
TiiE Player. — 

Poor Wat ! . . . Thou wentest scattering mis- 
adventure 
Like comfits from thy horn of plenty, Wat. 
Wat. — 

Ay, thank your worship. You be best at com- 
fort. {He pours a mug of ale) 
No show to-morrow ! Minnow Constable. . . . 
I'm a jack-rabbit strung up by my heels 
For every knave to pinch as he goes by ! 
Alas, poor Nick, bear Nick ... oh, think on 
Nick. 
The Player. — 

With all his fortunes darkened for a day, — 
An4 the eye o' his reason, sweet intelligencer. 
Under a beggarly patch. ... I pledge thee, 
Nick! 
Wat.— 

Oh, you have seen hard times, sir, with us all. 
Your eye's lack-lustre, too, this day. What 

say you? 
No jesting. . . . What? I've heard of marvels 

there 
In the New Country. There would be a knop- 

hole 
For thee and me. There be few Constables 



48 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 

And such unhallowed fry. . . . An thou 
wouldst lay 

Thy wit to mine — what is't we could not do? 

Wilt turn't about? {Leans towards him in cor- 
dial confidence) 

Nay, you there, sirrah boy, 

Leave us together; as 'tis said in the play, 

" Come, leave us, Boy ! " 

(Dickon does not move. He gives a sigh and leans 
his head against The Player's knee, his arms 
around his legs. He sleeps. The Player 
gazes sternly into the fire, while Wat rambles 
on, growing drowsy.) 

Wat.— 

The cub there snores good counsel. When all's 

done, 
What a bubble is ambition! . . . When all's 

done . . 
What's yet to do? . . . Why, sleep. . . . Yet 

even now 
I was on fire to see myself and you 
Off for the Colony, with Raleigh's men. 
I've been beholden to 'ee. . . . Why, for thee 
I could make shift to suffer plays o' Thursday. 
Thou'rt the best man among them, o' my w^ord. 
There's other trades and crafts and qualities ^ 
Could serve ... an thou wouldst lay thy wit 

to mine. 
Us two! ... us two! . . . 
The Player {apart, to the fire). — 
" Fair, kind and true." . . . 
Wat.— 

. . . Poor Nick! 
{He nods over his ale. There is muffled noise in the 
tap-room. Some one opens the door a second, 
letting in a stave of a song, then slams the door 



FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 49 

shut. The Player, who has turned, gloomily, 
starts to rise. Dickon moves in his sleep, and 
settles his cheek upon The Player's shoes. 
The Player looks down. Then he sits again, 
looking now at the fire, and now at the boy, 
whose hair he touches.) 

The Player. — 

So, Heavy-head. You bid me think my 

thought 
Twice over; keep me by, — a heavy heart, 
As ballast for thy dream. Well, I will 

watch . . . 
Like slandered Providence. Nay, I'll not be 
The prop to fail thy trust untenderly. 
After a troubled day. 

.... Nay, rest you here. 



Curtain 



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